


I'll Be Seeing You

by greenmtwoman



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Happy Ending of course, F/M, Humor, Is it sexting if it's done with ravens?, Separation, Show Canon divergent after TBTWP, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 09:48:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30120909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenmtwoman/pseuds/greenmtwoman
Summary: They haven't seen each other for three years.  It wasn't supposed to be this way.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 33
Kudos: 170





	I'll Be Seeing You

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for the Valentine's Day JB Smut Swap, but it got too long to be the short bit of fluff I intended. It also got too angsty, because I'm unable to stay away from angst with these two, even when I dearly want to. However, I also insist on happy endings as the writer's privilege!

They haven’t seen each other for three years. It wasn't supposed to be this way.

*****

Brienne stood in the weak sunshine by Sansa’s side as Jaime rode out of Winterfell at the head of a small party of soldiers. They were all that could be spared, and they would travel fast. “I don’t know what will happen,” he had told her. “Will my sister negotiate? She’s winning now, but she won’t in the end. Not that she’s ever been good at seeing reality. She won’t listen, but I have to try.”

“Why?” she had wanted to say. “Why you, why always you? You don’t owe her anything!” But there was no one in Westeros better equipped to end in some way Cersei’s mad reign. Unspoken was the possibility that the only way to stop Cersei was to kill her. Brienne wished she were riding with him, but she was sworn to Sansa, and Sansa hadn’t released her. Because she was needed in the North? Because Sansa didn’t trust Jaime? Both?

Jaime had known better than to forbid her to come south, but he had come close to it. “I won’t let you get anywhere near Cersei. She’d like nothing better than to hold you hostage, harm you or kill you.”

“As if she could.”

“Don’t underestimate her. She doesn’t love me, if she ever did, but she loves to hurt me or control me. She knows you exist, and that’s already too much for her to know.”

“What about you, Jaime? What if she holds you hostage, or harms you or kills you? You need me there to…”

“Cersei is my responsibility, not yours! The one I stood by for years. My twin, my queen, my lover, the mother of my children. My disaster.”

Brienne tried not to flinch. He was only telling the truth. “So you’re returning to her.”

“I’m not returning to her. I’m returning to deal with her. There’s a difference. Your duty is to guard Lady Sansa. I suggest you worry more about protecting her, Ser, and less about protecting me.” 

They had glared at each other. Then she had held out her arms.

Brienne shifted slightly in her armor. Her skin had once been marked with cuts and bruises; it was now marked with kisses, love bites and whisker burn. She could still feel him between her thighs. They had slept little, but she refused to yawn. Neither had they taken time to bathe, beyond quick swipes with a wet cloth. If she had been able to smell herself in the cold air, his scent would cling to her, as hers must cling to him. 

They had said their private farewells in the night, with words, with wordless noises, with their powerful bodies. She was still startled by the reality of coupling, the sweat and stickiness, the sounds they made and most of all by the fullness of Jaime inside her. She would reach between them, feeling the base of his cock, astonished that the length of it fit her. First she had become accustomed to it, and now she craved it. It was better than pleasure reached on her own, and in some ways even better than his mouth on her cunt, or his fingers pressing in. There was a place inside her. She didn’t know what it was called, but when he thrust against it, especially in combination with his or her own fingers on her nub, she felt her climax spread outward to every part of her body. Their first time together he had spilled inside her, and was abashed afterward, muttering “I’m glad I pleased you first. I lasted no longer than a green squire. I can do better.” She had only smiled, breath catching at the knowledge of how she had excited him. 

Since then, they had been careful, but last night she had felt reckless. “Spend in me; I want you to,” she had said fiercely. When she knew he was close she had held him to her with all her strength and felt the warmth of his seed within her.

The courtyard was crowded this morning and she felt no need for a more public acknowledgement of their relationship. Then Jaime came to stand in front of her. He plucked the glove from his left hand with his teeth and it fell to the ground, but he ignored it. Reaching for her right hand, he stripped off her glove and let it fall beside his. He held up his hand, palm toward her, and when she placed her palm against his he laced their fingers together.

“This isn't goodbye, Ser Brienne. This isn't the end of the story. When it's over, we'll find each other again. I swear it, and I no longer make vows I don’t mean.”

She inclined her head. “Your vow is mine, Ser Jaime.” She didn’t know if the others saw them; she couldn’t look away from Jaime’s eyes.

He gave a sharp nod, and their hands pulled apart. He picked up his glove, returned hers and mounted his horse. He looked back just once, as the gates of Winterfell closed behind him, leaving her in the courtyard.

Sansa turned to her, businesslike. “Ser Brienne, I don’t need guarding this morning, so please continue taking stock of the armory and distributing weapons for training as you see fit.”

“Yes, my lady.” 

She was pleased that her eyes were dry and her voice steady, but her composure nearly broke when Sansa added, unexpectedly compassionate, “I do not like the man, but I no longer doubt his loyalty to you. Sometimes it’s harder to be the one left behind than the one who departs.”

A week later her moon blood came at its usual time, and she didn’t know if she was glad or sorry.

*****

By the time they reached King’s Landing, he was gone, sent to the west. The leaderless remaining ironborn were reaving up and down the coast; it remained to be seen if Yara could – or wanted to – restrain them. The Lannister forces were disorganized and dispirited, not sure where their loyalty lay, and Casterly Rock itself – and its mines – were under threat. The fact that the mines were running out was not a piece of information that either Tyrion or Jaime wished to share. The Westerlands couldn’t be left to descend into chaos, and only a Lannister could mix enough force, negotiation, charm and persuasion to restore control. The end of the war had not, after all, meant the automatic arrival of peace.

Brienne understood duty more than most, and she only allowed her tears of loneliness and frustration to fall at night when no one could see them. But her vow held, and she was certain that Jaime’s did as well. There would be a future for them. Someday.

She was fiercely glad of one piece of news. Cersei had died before Jaime reached her. Glad the queen was dead, yes, but even more glad that Jaime hadn’t been the one to spill her blood. That was a burden he didn’t need; he already had enough. If he had killed her, her claws would have gripped his soul for the rest of his life. The stories she heard were various and contradictory. Cersei had been strangled, stabbed, burned, by her maester, her guard, a dragon, a nameless servant, by her own hand. Brienne didn’t care, and Jaime was silent.

The news from Tarth was a worse blow, for she couldn’t say “someday” to it. Her father was dead. There was so much she had planned to say to him. She had left Tarth as a girl; she had wanted to return as a woman. Her father had loved her and been bewildered by her. If they had met as adults, maybe, maybe, she could have explained the necessity of the path she had chosen. Also, her mind whispered, now he would never meet Jaime.

Sansa had immediately released her from service. “Tarth needs you more than I do. Others can guard me, but no one else can be the Evenstar.” Brienne had been torn, but she had gone. And at first the ravens flew between Tarth and Casterly Rock more than once a week.

*****

Listening to petitioners was exhausting. So many of their concerns were petty, but she constantly worried that her decisions might be wrong or unjust. Sometimes they departed satisfied, and sometimes angry. It was hard to keep her back straight and her chin up, projecting more authority than she felt. But there was a letter with a lion on the wax seal waiting for her in her solar. She opened it. The handwriting was still awkward, almost childish, but the message was not.

“I miss you even more than I believed I could. The Rock is cold; perhaps it always was. Are most of my bannermen truly greedy fools, or is it just that they aren’t you, so I grow sick of the sight of their idiotic faces? I warm myself at night by imagining you. The taste of your skin, your plump lips, your teats with their pink nipples, the honey of your cunt. I want to lick you from head to heels until you beg me to put my mouth between your legs. But I will only tease your thighs and your curly thatch until you whimper my name. I want to lick and suck as you get wetter and wetter, until you’re swollen and hard against my mouth, an aching ridge with a pink pearl at its tip. Thinking of you makes me so hard that I’m ready to come without even touching myself. A few strokes and I spill in my hand, on my stomach, in the sheets, in my tunic… I refuse to consider what the washerwomen must think.”

There was a smear on the parchment below his name. Brienne could imagine what it was. She was immensely glad that she had told the maester to give all letters from Casterly Rock to her unopened. She couldn’t have anyone else see what Jaime wrote, but neither could she bear to put his messages in the fire. His words scorched the paper as it was. Prudence dictated that the Evenstar couldn’t receive such letters from a man who wasn’t her husband, or even a man who was. But for her they were air and sunlight; she needed them, and in this case she wasn’t prudent. 

She brought the letter to her face. It didn’t, after all, smell like Jaime; it smelled like parchment and raven droppings. She pressed it to her lips, silently chastising herself. She was a knight and the Lady of Tarth, a woman grown, not a lovesick maid of thirteen years. A woman grown did not kiss messages. She kissed it again and dropped it into a box with a sturdy lock and key. His words and the images they created were burned into her mind, but still… She imagined, no, she knew that she would reread them at night when the ache of her cunt was unbearable. His words were the closest she could come to having Jaime with her when she slipped her hand between her legs and rubbed the swollen wetness there.

“Tell me how you think of me,” he asked. “Tell me what you do when you think of me.” She could almost hear his voice, warm and husky in her ear, but this wasn’t easy for her. She had never been facile with words, unlike any Lannister.

She picked up a quill and tapped it on the blotter. The ink made a shape which reminded her of Jaime’s cock. But writing what she thought was far more difficult. “Jaime, I will try, but this isn’t easy for me. I love the way the corners of your eyes crinkle when you look at me. I love the shape of your collarbones and the side of your neck. I love your ears; they are round and tidy…” She wrote more, filling the page.

The answer came quickly. “Brienne. Wench. My Brienne. My wench. I’ve told you exactly what I want to do to you, and how, and how it makes me feel. By the Seven, I’ve even sent you evidence. Your reply tells me that you like my ears? My ears are very fine, as are my collarbones, which you also praise, but surely there are parts below which you admire?”

More quill tapping. “Jaime. This is hard for me.” She paused. “Oh, I fear that is some sort of terrible jape. Yes, of course I think about your cock. And I greatly admire it. That doesn’t mean I’m accomplished at discussing it. I touch myself and imagine you touching me with your hand and mouth. Or I imagine you touching yourself, stroking up and down, tugging on the skin. Then I reach out and brush my fingers over the head, where the skin is so soft, like the finest velvet. In reality, I rub and circle my own nub until there is wetness soaking my cunt and I gasp your name as I climax. There. Is this what you wanted? I’m now so red that I must seal this letter, seal it very well before taking it to the maester. But first I must turn my attention to the household accounts, until my blushes subside.”

“Much to my satisfaction, you are becoming a wanton Evenstar. I want to hear more of this! Can you draw? I wish you could draw yourself for me in all your stubborn, freckled strength, with your blue eyes radiant. I can’t do it; my left hand can still scarcely write, though I make the effort for you. There’s a balcony overlooking the sea here. There are many balconies, but the one I imagine you on is at the top, where the seabirds wheel. I think of you there, bare in the sunlight (It’s often cloudy, but I won’t allow that in my imagining.) I would take you against the wall, lifting you and bracing you with your endless legs around my waist as I slide in and fuck you until your cries are louder than the birds. I’m strong enough.”

“I, too, am strong enough, and you should remember it. You have the strength to lift me, but I have the strength to pin you down, put my mouth on your cock, suck you slowly, then slide you into me and ride you slowly. I wouldn’t let you come until you were begging, or better yet, until all you could say was my name.”

*******************

In the second year, the ravens were less frequent. They were also less fevered.

“Addam has married a Redwyne girl. He seems quite content. Her dowry of ships loaded with Arbor Gold and Arbor Red undoubtedly contributes to his marital bliss. She has many freckles, but fewer than you do, and I have no idea how far they extend under her gowns. Her eyes are quite ordinary. I dream of yours. Do you close them when you think of me?”

“A ship of Lysenei sailswords landed on the east coast, probably to try kidnapping girls and boys for the pleasure houses; there is little else of monetary value there. The ordinary sailors have been imprisoned; their leaders executed. It’s a grave mistake for them to think that I can’t or won’t defend my people. Sometimes I almost forget that I’m a woman. Remembering you and rereading your words helps me to remember.”

“It’s no easy task, making the West less dependent on Lannister gold. Production in the mines, the Casterly mines and the Castamere mines, goes down every year. They may well be depleted during my lifetime. I can’t let it be known that we no longer shit gold, but I need to find other sources of wealth. I wish I could spar with you, in both ways, to forget all this.”

“There’s no one here I can cross swords with who truly challenges me. As for the other sort of sparring, there’s no one else I wish for. Jaime, I miss you.”

**********************************

Three years. Three long years. She felt the distance between Tarth and the West growing, as if Evenfall and Casterly Rock were drifting apart into the Narrow Sea and the Sunset Sea. How wide could the gap grow before the connection broke? At times she feared it already had. She still kissed his letters, still locked them away. Those that he wrote himself… The latest message had been dictated to the maester and concerned itself with repairs to the breakwater at the entrance to Lannisport harbor. “Recent storms have broken through the seawall in several spots. We’re arranging for quarried granite to be delivered in the next month; the breakwater needs to be at least four feet above the high tide mark to avoid future trouble and maintain Lannisport as an important harbor.” Did he still stroke himself and think of her?

She held the quill so tightly that it threatened to snap in her grip. She forced her fingers to relax. “Do you still want me? Do you still remember our days together?” She angrily scribbled out the words and wastefully crumpled the parchment. She couldn’t write that. Too honest. Too needy. She might well have to learn not to need him. She had a life that was… worthwhile. Important, even. If it held no passion, it had the sober satisfaction of duty fulfilled.

Sometimes she could almost sense him. The color of his eyes, the roughness of his beard, the texture of his skin, the smell of his breath. The sharpness of his smile, the sound of his laugh. If she turned her head, surely he would be standing there. Other times he was like a faded drawing. Were his eyes leaf green or moss green? Was the hair on his chest soft or wiry when she rubbed her nose against it? What was the exact timbre of his voice when he teased her or when he groaned in arousal? What was the wordless noise he made – a hiss? – when she flicked her tongue underneath the head of his cock?

“I recognize the need for harbor maintenance; we face some of the same issues, but Evenfall Harbor is protected from the worst storms by the bulk of the island. Luckily, we have no need to import stone.”

Then, a letter in his own hand. “The ironborn are finally discouraged, after a failed raid on the Crag. We burned nearly fifty longships, and they have returned to quarrelling with each other. The harbor is well-fortified and my bannermen are content with the return of peace and good trade. They’ve been lulled away from their petty disagreements like sleepy children told a good bedtime story. It’s time for me to visit my brother in King’s Landing. It would be good to see you there, if you wish.”

She stared at the scroll. Such temperate words. Jaime wanted to see his brother. Did he want to see her? He was going to King’s Landing. It would have been easy enough for him to ask to visit Tarth, but perhaps he didn’t want to bother. “If you wish.” He was giving her an easy way to decline, to say that she was too busy. Maybe that was what he wanted. Maybe he had formed another attachment. Three years. Too long.

**********************************

She’s a good sailor with a steady stomach. She grew up on boats in Tarth’s waters, just as she learned to ride in Tarth’s mountains. Nevertheless, she eats little on the ship to King’s Landing. She had replied briefly to Jaime, letting him know that she would be there. She even added that she looked forward to seeing him. She isn’t sure if that’s true.

A message is waiting for her as she disembarks beneath high walls still scorched by dragon fire. She doesn’t know the writing, but it tells her that a chamber has been prepared for her in the Red Keep. A part of her wants to refuse, to find an acceptable inn as she planned, but that’s foolish pride – and also fear. She needs to see him, even to spend time with him – her stomach clenches once more – to find out what happens next. If anything.

Her room is comfortable, not grand by previous standards, but rebuilding is still ongoing. It’s not Lannister red, nor, for that matter, Stark gray, but a jumble of furnishings and colors, whatever could be salvaged from the destruction. She sits down to write a message; she’ll call a page to take it to Jaime, wherever he might be. Before she can finish, there’s a knock on the door. The awkward writing on this message is known to her. “Brienne. Meet me in the garden pavilion overlooking the Blackwater. Please.”

She straps Oathkeeper to her waist. The feel of the hilt gives her determination. Perhaps he is as uncertain as she is.

She stops a few yards from the entrance to the pavilion where she once met Olenna and Margaery Tyrell. Stops and stares, and grips Oathkeeper’s hilt. Jaime is the same, and he is different. She remembers everything about him, and she remembers nothing. She can’t stop looking at him, and she can’t meet his eyes. Is he grayer? His golden hand is gone, replaced with serviceable wood and iron. He’s clean-shaven. Her Jaime had a beard.

“Ser Brienne.”

“Ser Jaime.”

She walks toward him, halts a few feet away. They don’t touch. She’s torn between a need to fling herself at him and a desire to turn her back and flee. There’s some of the same doubt in his face, or so she thinks. Once she had believed she understood his expressions.

“You’re real. I wasn’t sure you would come,” he says.

They evaluate each other. Somehow, in her imagination in the last three years, he has grown, and she has become more delicate. It’s not true. He’s still tall and broad-shouldered and strong, but she’s taller. And broader. And uglier. It’s simple to know how to react to him in fantasy, but this is daylight, with the sun on her face. How does he see this Brienne? She takes a step forward. So does he. She lifts her hand, slowly, and touches his cheek. Jaime’s face, real, here, against her hand. His eyes are soft. He rises up and kisses her chastely, and they breathe together for a moment.

“I wasn’t certain you wanted me to come,” she says. “But I needed to know.”

“You’re wearing the sword. I hope you’re not trying to give it back again.” 

She shakes her head. “It’s mine. You said it will always be mine.”

“It will. Why would you imagine I don’t want to see you? I’ve waited all this time. I made a vow, and since I gave you that blade, I’ve kept my vows. Oathkeeper, remember?”

Silence falls between them and they step apart. “It’s been a long time. I made the journey to see you, but also to say that I’ll release you if you like.”

“How generous of you. I don’t like it. Not at all,” he says sharply. They look at Blackwater Bay, at the still-visible burned hulks, and the ships maneuvering between them. 

“Then why…” She takes a deep breath. “They changed. Your ravens. Letters written by the maester? Grain harvests, road repairs. A rockslide near the Golden Tooth.”

“And yours? The last few could have been written by a septa. You said you were considering raising the harbor fees for trading vessels.” He snorts. “I tried to find the hidden meaning in that. I failed.”

She gathers the courage she’s developed from being the Evenstar, though she knows she has reddened. “And so here we are, face to face. But we don’t know each other anymore. Not the way we did at Winterfell. Do you still want me?”

“That’s why I’m here.” He kisses her cheek, still gentle, demanding nothing. “We have time. My brother asks me to join him for dinner, and I’d like you to be there. Will you?”

*******************************

It’s a kind of perverse pride which makes her decide to wear a dress. She hesitates over Oathkeeper, then puts it on, even though bearing a sword to a private dinner isn’t strictly courteous. 

There’s a knock on her door, and Jaime in a dark red jacket. “I don’t want you to get lost and starve searching for your meal.” There’s surprise and curiosity in his expression as he greets her, and a warm, slow smile that makes her tingle, even as she mistrusts it. 

“I’m perfectly capable of finding my way.”

“Perhaps I want your protection. Or perhaps I simply want your company.”

“My company,” she says skeptically. “Come in and let’s speak of my company. I want you to look at me. Really look. I don’t know how you remember me, but I’m ugly. A beast of a woman. A cow. A sow. I’ve heard it often enough, including from you.” 

He enters, shuts the door, and takes his time examining her. He shrugs. “I've said many stupid things in my time. Are you ugly, my lady? Yes, I suppose you are, but I don’t see why I should care. Your eyes are extraordinary, and the rest of you is exactly as it should be. You’re a knight and you’re a lady and you’re my wench. I know exactly how much beauty is worth.”

“Easy enough for you to say. You’re beautiful.”

“Is that why you came? Because you think that a gray-haired, middle-aged, one-handed knight is beautiful?”

She relaxes enough to give him one of her small, secret smiles, the corner of her mouth just lifting. “You’re fishing for a compliment. But maybe.”

“If we’re speaking the truth, what about this?” He lifts his right arm and keeps his eyes on her as he works at the straps with deft familiarity. The wood and iron appendage comes away. The end of his stump is thickly calloused now but still scarred and puckered. “At least you’re whole.”

She takes it in her hand and studies it closely in silence. She lifts it and rests her cheek against it. She searches for words. She needs to say this properly. “I don’t think of it as something missing. It’s just you, as much as any other part of you.”

“Then why don’t you believe the same of me? When I see you, I see you. Just you.”

*******************************

Brienne has never been comfortable around Tyrion Lannister. His eyes are too sharp and knowing, his tongue too quick, even quicker than Jaime’s, and she is decidedly not his kind of woman. But she is the Lady of Tarth, and if he mocks her, it’s his shame, not hers. She keeps her back straight; she may not have the face or body of a noblewoman, but she has the dignity of one. If she’s expected to treat with him as the Hand of the King, then he should treat with her as the Evenstar of Tarth.

Tyrion is courteous and curious, his gaze flickering between them. There is a lavish meal of oyster stew, a braise of beef with dumplings and fish pie with mushrooms. Brienne marks it in Tyrion’s favor that everything served is easy for Jaime to eat. The Hand presses her on events in the Stormlands, and she is better at political conversation than she used to be. He drinks the most, Jaime less, and she hardly at all; she won’t make that mistake in front of them again. 

“It’s good to see you in King’s Landing. His Grace is grateful for this indication of Tarth’s loyalty. As am I, and I suspect that my brother agrees.”

“His Grace should have no concerns. Tarth’s only desire is for a lasting peace.” Brienne remembers that when she left the island to follow Renly, she had been angry with her father for refusing to commit more than a few archers – and his unsuitable daughter – to Renly’s cause. Now she wishes that she could apologize to him. “So many vows,” Jaime had told her once. “They make you swear and swear.” If she had to choose, which would she keep? The vow to her people or to her king?

“And you eagerly sell us your marble and your fish for a fine price,” Tyrion observes.

“We’re happy to make our contribution to rebuilding and feeding King’s Landing. If Tarth profits, that’s only right and natural. Ser Jaime knows the issues which come with lordship.”

“Ser Jaime, as you so courteously call him, has certainly changed. He once only understood fighting and fucking our sweet…”

Jaime’s voice is silk and steel. “Where you once only understood drinking and whoring. That was then, brother. This is now.”

Brienne is exquisitely uncomfortable, even more so when both men suddenly laugh and lift their goblets to each other. She does not understand the Lannister family.

“As you say.” Tyrion takes a deep drink and turns to her. “You’ve been a good influence on him, Lady Evenstar, much better than his siblings. I hope you can find a way to continue to influence him. In private mayhaps?” 

Is he teasing her or encouraging her or… Whatever he intends, he’s giving her a headache. She’s also embarrassed by the difference in their stature; he makes her feel even more huge and ungainly than usual. Jaime is almost as tall as she is, but he doesn’t have that problem; he moves around his brother with the ease of life-long familiarity. “Tarth and Lannister fought together during the Long Night,” Brienne says, reaching for a safe observation.

“And after? Was that fighting you were doing?” 

That’s too much. “Lord Tyrion,” she says coldly. The effrontery of the man. Her face is red, but her glare, combined with Jaime’s, seems to sober him. 

Tyrion sighs. “I mean no disrespect. My brother has a talent for loving; for example, he somehow manages to love me.”

“Even when you make it difficult,” Jaime interjects. 

“I’m pleased if he uses his talent on a worthy object.”

This is tiring, even if Tyrion means no offense. She wonders what the brothers make of it; there are undercurrents to their every interaction which she can’t interpret. Lannisters.

There is a sweet course of custard flavored with lemon and orange, and finally Tyrion rises. “I wish you a pleasant night, Lady Brienne.”

“Ser Brienne,” Jaime corrects.

“I answer to both,” says Brienne politely.

“Of course. I’m sure my brother will ensure that we meet again.” Tyrion’s voice is bland, but he smirks at her and his eyes slide to Jaime.

She turns outside the door. “Your quarters are in the other direction,” Jaime observes, and she stops, infuriated with herself.

“I was distracted.”

“Tyrion has that effect. He enjoys it.”

The silence grows weighty and she makes up her mind. She doesn’t know if it’s because of Tyrion’s insinuations. It can’t be the half-glass of wine she drank, but she knows with sudden clarity that she didn’t, after all, come to King’s Landing to hesitate. Before she can think too much about it, she grasps Jaime’s shoulders and presses him against the nearest wall. She wants him, even if there’s no clear path for them. She wants him even if it ends with her on the next ship back to Tarth. 

She can taste the wine in his mouth. He's still for a moment and then his reaction is everything she could have wanted. His right arm presses her to him and his left hand is roaming, tangling in her hair, reaching for her breast, dropping to her hip as he pushes against her. He moves a leg between hers, and he’s hardening already, she can feel that he’s hardening against her thigh and she grinds herself on his leg. “Gods…” Is she groaning, or is he?

There are voices. And approaching footsteps. She wants… she wants… But there are voices. 

Jaime shoves her away and grabs her shoulder. “This way. My quarters.” It’s only around the corner, and the voices are left behind. There are candles burning, and a fire, but she sees nothing of the room, only his eyes. Now it’s her back which is against the wall. Is this why she wore a dress? Jaime gathers up her skirt and snorts in frustration. He can neither continue to hold the skirt nor drag at her smallclothes with his missing hand. She snatches the folds of cloth from him and lifts them out of the way. 

They are both breathing raggedly as her smallclothes drop to the floor. She kicks them away, and Jaime sinks to his knees. If her pupils are as wide as his, there will be scarcely a rim of color left. She spreads her legs apart and thrusts her hips forward wantonly. He starts with her thighs, with openmouthed kisses and then rubs his nose against the hair of her cunt. She knows that she’s wet, she wants his tongue licking and sucking, but he goes slowly, murmuring appreciatively until she grasps his hair. “Jaime, please… stop…”

He lifts his head. “Stop?”

“No! Yes! Stop teasing me!” He nuzzles his nose deeper and flicks his tongue just once. “What are you doing?” she growls.

“Other than getting a crick in my neck?” She can feel his grin against her swollen flesh, but before she can grab him again he lifts her – lifts her! – with his arms around her thighs and carries her to the bed. “I told you once I was strong enough. Much more comfortable here for both of us.”

He has a point. “Clothes off.” She’s unable to summon more than fragmentary words.

“Yours or mine?”

“Both!”

He’s much defter than he used to be with the laces and his false hand, and he dives back between her legs, leaving one of her hands grasping the coverlet and the other gripping his hair. She wants her hands on more of him, but for now she surrenders as he finally, finally has his lips sucking her hard nub and his tongue chafing it, and she grunts and moans and twists her head back and forth and and she can’t… it’s too… ahhhh… aghhh… arghh… Her body has tensed and arched and now she sinks down gasping and his mouth is gently kissing and easing her through the aftershocks.

He slides up her body and now she can touch him everywhere, his skin so warm under her hands and it’s better than she imagined. Yes, this is how he tastes, and this is how he smells, and these are the sounds he makes. But she still needs more, and wet and ready as she is it’s so simple to fling a leg over him, rise up and mount him. An instant to position him at her entrance and she sinks down on him. She takes a moment to adjust; it’s been a long time since she’s been filled by him. Then she begins to move and it’s his turn to gasp. He’s trying to keep his eyes open but he can’t; they squeeze shut and his hips buck up. “You’re so tight. You’re so wet. You feel so good, so good, so good…” He tries to reach where they are joined, but she takes his hand and brings it to her mouth; she’s not ready for another climax yet, and she wants to watch him come with his face contorted in something that could be pain but that she knows is the pleasure she’s giving him.

He softens inside her and she moves off him with some regret. But this is wonderful too, to collapse with their arms around each other. Before she had known, she had thought of it as a man taking possession, conquering a woman. But she too feels like a conqueror when she takes him into her, feeling him helpless in the hot grip of her body. Or else it is mutual conquest and mutual surrender, mutual taking and mutual giving. It’s more than physical ecstasy; it’s connection. I am his and he is mine.

So long as neither of them speak, she can hold onto that thought. The night is dark outside the room, and the room is shadowed beyond the bed. Perhaps there is nothing else. Only them, no Houses, no heritage, no responsibilities. No need to get moon tea or wonder when and if she should return to her own chamber. She strokes his back, and he rubs a thumb over her nipple. She can feel his smile against her neck, and she finds her voice. “What are we going to do now, Ser?”

“Nothing, for the moment. I did remind you earlier that I’m middle-aged. You must give your aging lover some recovery time.”

“I meant tomorrow, or next week or next month. I return to Tarth in a fortnight.”

“Always so serious. I told you once about jumping from the cliffs at Casterly Rock.”

“Which was a foolish thing to do.”

“But Tarth has cliffs above the sea, too. Did you ever jump?”

“How did you know? After my brother drowned…” Jaime tightens his arm around her. “…I was afraid of the sea for a long time. Then I didn’t want to be afraid anymore. So I jumped.”

“You speak so much of our outsides, when we’re more alike than you admit. We both know how to face a fear, take a chance, and leap.”

For a moment she wishes she were still on Tarth. There’s never been a time when her relationship with Jaime was uncomplicated. “Could you come to Tarth?”

“Could you come to Casterly Rock?”

“I could come, but I couldn’t stay.”

“The Rock isn’t so unpleasant, or is it my company you’d weary of?”

“You know what I mean. Be serious. I could… There would be a place for you on Tarth. Would it bore you?”

“If it did, I’m sure you’d correct my opinion, by blade or bed.” He rolls on his side so they are facing each other. “Tyrion thought he wanted Casterly Rock.”

“Thought?”

“Once I’d have given it to him gladly. But now I see that it’s the recognition he needs. The respect, the acknowledgment. He has all those things in King’s Landing. He loves the politics, the maneuvering, the intrigue and the gossip. Even in peacetime, King’s Landing gives him what he craves. In peacetime, the West… you’ve read my disappointing messages. The Rock appears formidable, but it’s tedious work, too tedious for a clever imp like my brother.”

“Your brother has always thought himself cleverer than he is. You…” she raised herself on her elbow, “are cleverer than you know.”

“And you’re far wiser than I realized when we met.”

She laughs at him. The nervous fear inside her is easing. “You say that because I called you clever!”

“Earlier you called me beautiful.”

“Gods, I did! I should return to guarding my speech.”

“I can stop your mouth.” He kisses her.

******

She wakes early the next morning; it’s just beginning to get light. She’s not used to sharing a bed. That month in Winterfell is the only time she has done so. It’s one thing to share a camp, or even a tent with companions, quite another to wake to bare skin pressed against her and soft snores ruffling the hair behind her ear.

She eases out of Jaime’s grasp and seeks the privy, then slips back into bed. It seems more craven, somehow, to gather up her discarded clothes and scurry back to her own room, avoiding the servants, than it does to stay here.

She can tell when he wakes by the subtle change in his breathing and shift of his body, though his eyes remain closed. He stretches, then speaks as if resuming a conversation rather than starting one. “I’ll be marrying soon. Casterly Rock needs a lady, and an heir.”

She’s out of bed before she’s even aware of reacting. She grabs the first garment she sees, which happens to be Jaime’s shirt. “Is that so? I’m leaving now.”

“Brienne?” He sits up, sounding startled, and how dare he?

“You… you…” She can’t find words, and she’s at a disadvantage, though he’s still naked. His shirt barely reaches the top of her thighs.

“You know as well as I do that we have obligations.”

“Of course we do, but I thought… Well, it’s obviously of no import what I thought. I assume you’ve chosen a suitable maid.”

“Hardly a maid.”

“A well-connected widow, then? For your obligations and your necessary heir? I’m a fool. I’m a fool now and I was a fool before. Vows made in the north in wartime have no force in the south in peacetime. Not when compared to obligations.” She grabs his breeches and pulls them on. What has become of her damnable dress?

He’s still staring at her, but now he looks amused, of all things. “I thought I remembered everything about you, but I had forgotten your lack of a sense of humor. If you’re going to be a Lannister…”

She freezes. “A what?”

His changeability unbalances her. Now he’s angry. “You’re willing to swear in front of a roomful of people, one of whom has dragons, that I’m a man of honor, but when you’re in my bed you expect me to behave like shit.”

She’s not succeeding in fastening his breeches. She gives up. “Will you for once in your Lannister life just say what you mean?”

“I thought I was asking you to marry me.”

She stands straighter. She refuses to be mocked, not by him, not about this. “I didn’t hear a question. I didn’t hear anything about me at all. You said that you were going to marry. For Casterly Rock.”

“Who else but you would I wed?”

She takes a step toward him, but only one. “If you need a lady for Casterly Rock, anyone but me.”

He swings out of bed and stands, naked, unself-conscious and gorgeous. “You are a lady. Not the usual kind, but the kind I want. You’re honorable, honest, kind, fierce, strong, gentle, accomplished…”

“At swordplay.”

“At much more than that.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“That’s not an answer. I want to be your husband, and have you for my wife, and I can only think of one reason against it.”

“I’m sure it’s a good one.”

“Which is that it would make my father so fucking happy in whichever of the seven hells he occupies.”

“Your father would hate me.”

“He wouldn’t give a damn about you, except that you’re young, nobly born, likely to be fertile, and you give us an ally in the Stormlands. He’d be turning handsprings.”

She laughs unwillingly. “I never met your father, only saw him from a distance, but… handsprings?”

“Me as Lord of Casterly Rock, married, ready to continue the Lannister family line? I only hope he can’t see it; I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.”

“You’re serious.”

“I’m seldom serious. I am, however, sincere. If you tell me you’ve never thought about this, I’ll call you a liar. And I know you’re not a liar.”

“It won’t work.”

“Why not? Together and separately we’ve survived captivity, Catelyn Stark, Bloody Mummers, bears…”

“It was only one bear.”

“An exceptionally large bear, as I remember. Also Roose Bolton, an army of the dead and godsdamned dragons? You’re worried that we can’t manage two castles? In peacetime? Are you so craven?”

“Are you trying to convince me by insulting me? Not two castles. Two former kingdoms, a continent apart.”

“A small continent.”

“Get dressed.” She scowls at him. “You’re shameless. I can’t argue properly while you stand there like… that.”

“Are you accusing me of trying to influence you with my charms?” He stretches deliberately. “In any case, you’re wearing my clothes. I’ll put them on if you take them off. Better yet, you take them off and I won’t put them on.”

“I love you,” she says aggressively. There’s nothing soft in her tone. She states it as a challenge.

“And I love you. I’m asking again. You’ve seen the worst of me.” He sounds almost hostile, but this whole conversation is so strange that she feels a sudden, inappropriate, impulse to giggle at his nakedness. “I’m still that man in many ways. Will you have me anyway?”

She is silent for a long moment, looking away from him. This is more difficult than the lust which propelled her last night. This is the risky vulnerability of love. Love with a difficult man with a difficult past, and sharp edges which still can cut her. It won’t be easy. It will need to be tended every day for the remainder of their lives. Even so, in the end there’s only one answer she can give. “I’ve seen the best of you as well, including the parts you keep hidden even from yourself. Yes, I’ll have you. As you say, we’ve faced disaster together before.”

“You expect our marriage to be a disaster?”

“Isn’t that one of the risks?”

“You’re the bravest woman – no, the bravest knight and the bravest person I know. Have you ever run away from a fight?”

“What if… Do we really know each other? Knowing and wanting aren’t the same thing.”

“I know you well enough.”

“Oh, Jaime. You think you do.”

“I know you. I trust you. I trusted you before I knew you and knew you before I could admit that I love you.”

She breathes deeply. A risk worth taking. She can do this. She trusts him. “A condition, then.” 

“If you expect me to defeat you in combat, you know that I can’t.”

“That’s not it.” He looks curious. “I want my lord husband to have a beard.”

That wasn’t what he expected her to say, and he laughs. “Are you sorry you didn’t choose that Tormund? He had beard enough for six men.”

“Still jealous?”

“Oh, yes. Everyone should admire you, but I’m the only one permitted to leer at you. Come here, please, and stop fiddling with those laces as if you intend to leave.”

She steps toward him, all the way this time, and he slides his hand under her clothes. His clothes. His stump is at the small of her back, and his hand pushes the breeches down. She removes the shirt herself and rubs her fingers over his cheek. “In a fortnight you’ll have enough whiskers again.”

“You’ll wed me when I have whiskers?”

“I will. But no big celebration. We’ll announce it after we’re wed. No bedding ceremony.”

“No bedding ceremony? Tyrion will be disappointed…”

“I’m not letting your brother see me naked, Jaime!”

“That suits me very well. That pleasure is reserved for your lord-husband-to-be. Isn’t that true? Lady wife?”

Voices outside the door keep her from replying. She pivots hastily toward another door and flings herself through it as the heavy latch on the main entry lifts. She bangs her forehead and finds herself squeezed into a dark cupboard full of fabric, her neck bent to keep from hitting the ceiling. She presses a finger hard below her nose to stop a sneeze. How has her morning turned so fast from drama to farce?

“Something to break your fast, Lord Jaime.” The rattle of trays and plates seems to go on for a long time. “Do you need anything else? No?”

She wonders if Jaime has bothered to grab a robe. Finally the solid thump of the closing door. “You can come out now, Brienne. If we were wed, you wouldn’t need to hide in the linen cupboard.”

She emerges and gives in to a violent sneeze and a coughing fit. It’s a relief to find him nonchalantly wearing her shirt, which is, barely, long enough for decency. “Never mind about your beard. I’ll marry you today. I dislike cupboards!”

His smile is like Tarth’s sunrise over the Narrow Sea. Like Tarth’s sunset seen from Evenfall. “We’ve both jumped from cliffs before. This time we can take the leap while holding hands.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story ended up being all over the place in tone. How did a bit of farce sneak in at the end? Don't ask me! Comments are adored, and anwwered.


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